Wallflower at the Orgy (8 page)

BEFORE

May 1968

Monday

Cosmopolitan
magazine is going to make me over. On Thursday. Don’t know what they’re going to make me over into, but plan to suggest they try for Faye Dunaway. Called husband to tell him news. “That’s great, honey,” he said. “That’s fantastic. Terrific. Really marvelous.” Husband overreacting. Lupe doing my hair. Who, you may ask, is Lupe. Lupe spent summer doing Beautiful People’s hair in Southampton, and when summer ended Beautiful People said, “Lupe, Lupe, we cannot get through the winter without you. You must come to New York.” So he did. “He does all of high society,” said Beauty Editor. “Good,” said I, “because then he is used to coping with only moderately attractive people.” Mark Traynor doing my face. Said Mark Traynor in February issue of
Cosmopolitan:
“First I decided on a woman’s
type
. Is she high fashion? Is she pretty-pretty? Does she have a Florentine nose? Even if I can’t make a woman beautiful, I can make her
interesting.
” But I
am
interesting, Mark Traynor. It’s
beautiful
I want to be.

Am writing article to go with makeover. What a relief. When Before picture is printed, I can write, “I never looked that bad.” Am even considering having hair done for Before picture. “That,” said my husband, “is like cleaning the house before the maid comes.” Actually, I do that too.

Went to big noisy flashing psychedelic party tonight where told forty-five people
Cosmopolitan
making me over. All said it was great. Forty-sixth person said he liked me the way I am.

Before picture being taken today. Up at seven a.m. Washed hair. Set hair. Sat under dryer with moisture cream on face. Combed out hair. Applied make-up base and eye make-up. Put on favorite dress with openwork stockings. Flung open door at eleven a.m. to welcome Beauty Editor and Photographer. “This is me without any make-up,” I said. Beauty Editor looked distressed. “You don’t look bad enough,” she said. “Do you have a bobby pin?” Curses. Had one. Beauty Editor pinned back hair in horribly unflattering style. Photographer began shooting.

“I feel I must tell you,” I told him, “my left eyelid droops.”

He looked. “Right,” he said, and went on shooting. And shooting. And shooting. Me
au naturel
. Me less
au naturel
. Me inside. Me outside. Beauty Editor, having pondered how to make me over, reached decision. “You have a good daytime look,” she said. “Maybe we should try for a nighttime look, for a glamorous new you.” Yippee! A glamorous new me.

Everett and Cathy over for dinner. Told them this would be the last they would see of old unglamorous me and my good daytime look. “You mean,” asked Everett, “that now you’re Before and tomorrow night you’ll be After?” Yes, said
I, smugly. “That’s great,” he said, “because at least there won’t be any During.”

DURING

Thursday

The big day for the new me. Arrived Lupe’s ten a.m. Beauty Editor and Photographer waiting. Lupe appeared: boyish, Spanish, Pierre Cardin suit, Gucci shoes, solid-gold scissors. “What we are doing now,” he said, “is de ringlets in de front and de shaggy in de back.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We are doing this now,” he went on. “De ringlets in de front and de shaggy in de back. That is what we are doing. Now.”

Had vision of everyone in high society marching up Madison Avenue with their ringlets in the front and their shaggy in the back. Did not want to be left out of trend. “If I do this,” I asked, “how long will it take to grow back to where it is now?”

“Two years,” said Lupe.

Decided to go for modified version: ringlets in the front but no shaggy in the back. Hair washed, snipped, set, dried in three hours. Am whisked into taxi by Beauty Editor and Photographer and taken, hair in rollers, to photographer’s studio. Mark Traynor waiting: fortyish, carrot-haired, red-coated, satchel in hand. “Well,” I said when we met, “am I high fashion? Am I pretty-pretty? Do I have a Florentine nose?”

“You’re certainly not pretty-pretty,” said Traynor, looking
critically and frowning. “Is this your regular make-up?” he asked. It was. Satchel unpacked. Out fell nine brushes, ten lipsticks, two sets false eyelashes, twenty-four bottles, twelve cakes eye shadow, powder, mascara, blush-on, eye liner. “I didn’t bring my entire kit,” he said, “but twenty-five different items should be enough for you.”

“I feel I must tell you,” I told him, “my left eyelid droops.”

He looked. “Right,” he said.

Beauty Editor explained to Traynor that layout would be in black and white. Traynor began. Told me my face too narrow, eyebrows too arched, chin too long. Told me he would widen face, de-arch eyebrows, shorten chin. “Of course, you could always have plastic surgery on your chin,” he added. “Now, I had a friend with a long chin who had his chin broken in surgery and shortened. He looked
fabulous
. Just
fabulous
. Of course he died.” Traynor applied base, plucked eyebrows, brought out bone structure with shadowing, lightened outside of face for widened effect. Put brown eye shadow on chin bottom to shorten, light line down nose to narrow, powder on eyebrows to de-emphasize. Throughout told rollicking tales of other lucky women he had made up and insulted. “The other night,” he said, “I was at a beauty clinic on Staten Island and a girl who had freckles under her eyes asked me what I thought of using skin bleach to lighten them. I said I didn’t know what product she was using, but that it was probably bad for her since the area under the eyes has so little natural moisture. Well, after I said that, her mother stood up and disagreed. She said she’d been using the same bleach for almost forty years. ‘And, Madam,’ I said, ‘the skin under your eyes looks just like crepe.’ ” Traynor giggled with glee.

Then, still chortling, he tackled eyes. “Each eye is great,” he said. “Individually.” Painted, shadowed, eyelined, glued on false eyelashes. Put on bright red lipstick. “I have to for a black-and-white picture,” he said. He looked into mirror. “Omigod,” he said. “She’s gorgeous.” False eyelashes did not look false. Eyelid no longer drooped. Face was wide. Chin was short. Nose was narrow. “You look just like Kay Kendall,” said the Beauty Editor.

“And remember,” said Traynor, “you can’t kiss anyone because half your face will fall off.” He looked at my hair, still in rollers, and continued. “I know just how I would do your hair.”

“How?” I asked.

“Very architectural and geometric and sculptured and short,” he said.

“Really?” I said. “I always thought my hair should soften my features.”

“My dear,” said Traynor, “it’s like putting a Rubens frame on a Picasso painting. You just can’t put something that’s soft and pretty around something that just isn’t.”

He paused. “Whoops. What have I said?”

Beauty Editor produced fluffy white-lace dress cut low and dangly earrings. Put them on. Traynor applied cleavage (brown eye shadow again). Lupe arrived to comb out hair. First hairdo soft, fluffy, and fortiesish. Loved it. Looked just like Gene Tierney. Looked luscious. Looked beautiful. Mark Traynor hated hairdo. Lupe hated make-up. I am not paying attention. I am overwhelmed. “It is,” I announced, “no longer necessary for me to have a personality.” Second hairdo: the ringlets in the front. Loved it. Looked just like Elizabeth Taylor. Mark Traynor hated hairdo. Lupe continued to hate face. “It’s overdone,” said Lupe. “But it had to be overdone,”
Beauty Editor explained to him, “because the pictures are black-and-white.” Third hairdo: long ringlets everywhere. Loved it. Looked just like Scarlett O’Hara. Fourth hairdo: simple, just a few ringlets. Love ringlets. Husband arrived for inspection. He looked puzzled. “You look very strange,” he said. “You look artificial.”

“But it has to be this way,” I said, “because the pictures are black-and-white. And anyway, don’t you think I look like Gene Tierney?”

Finished photo session at six p.m. Took off fluffy white-lace dress and put it back in box to be returned to wholesaler. Took off earrings and dropped them into jewelry case belonging to wholesaler. Took off ringlets and put them back into wig case to be returned to wholesaler. Went home with my husband and my new face to my new glamorous life.

AFTER

Thursday Night

Husband and I arrived home. “I still think you look strange,” he said. Began packing for trip to Mexico. Teen-aged sister, Amy, arrived to learn how to feed cats. “What did they do to you?” she asked. “It had to be this way for black-and-white pictures,” I explained.

Girl friend Roz came over. “You look forty years old,” she said.

“But,” I protested, “I look just like Gene Tierney.”

“Nevertheless, you look forty years old.”

Went into bathroom and looked in bathroom mirror.
What a shock. Bathroom mirror looked nothing like little stage mirror I had sat in front of all day. Face in bathroom mirror looked nothing like face in little stage mirror I had seen all day. Face in mirror
did
look forty years old. False eyelashes looked as if two skunks were sitting on eyelids. Face looked buried under two feet of pink grease. Eye shadow on chin looked like five-o’clock eye shadow. “And why is your lipstick so red?” asked Roz. I began mumbling. “Gene Tierney … black-and-white pictures … had to be.” Then I took out the cold cream and took off a little bit of the make-up.

“Now,” said Roz, “you look only thirty-eight.”

While leaving restaurant later that night bumped into Everett and Cathy. They began laughing. “You looked better before,” said Cathy between snorts. “You look During,” said Everett. I rushed home to cold cream and took off every bit of the glamorous new me.

Old me back in mirror. Ringlets have lost curls. False eyelashes sitting in medicine cabinet. Depression lifting. Mystery remains. For years I have been reading about makeovers in magazines. I would look at the new girl, made over top to bottom, and would think, ‘Fantastic. That girl will
never
wear brown shoes with a black purse again.’ What I did not realize is that when the pictures are over, the dress goes back to the wholesaler, the new hairdo goes back to the wigmaker, the new face disappears with the first night’s cleansing, and you are left with two false eyelashes in the
medicine chest, one tube of false-eyelash glue, and your brown shoes and your black purse.

Not that I didn’t learn a great deal: I know how to widen my face, shorten my chin, and narrow my nose. I learned how to put in cheekbones where none had been. I learned that the make-up designed for a black-and-white photograph is not necessarily make-up designed for nighttime wear. But when it was all over, I did not look like Faye Dunaway. Or Kay Kendall. Or Elizabeth Taylor. Or Scarlett O’Hara.

And I didn’t look like a Goya Princess, either. I looked exactly like Nora Ephron used to look. Only a little teeny bit better.

Scene: The cloistered House of Balenciaga, 10 Avenue Georges Cinq, Paris, a fashion establishment so secretive about its operations it is often called The Monastery. Time: Just days before the Paris collections open. Enter a florist’s delivery clerk, in shabby nylon dress and carpet slippers, delivering a bunch of flowers to Balenciaga’s directrice, Mlle. Renée. Shuffling slowly through the salon, the clerk sees everything—the models, the collection, the look. She leaves with a two-franc tip. The following day,
Women’s Wear Daily
prints advance sketches of the collection, its information supplied by the delivery clerk—a disguised full-time reporter for the famous newspaper of the women’s clothing business.

Scene: Fifty-seventh Street, midtown Manhattan, half a block from Tiffany’s. Time: Autumn, the clothes-buying season. Greta Garbo, New York’s most elusive, least photographed celebrity, is window-shopping along the street when she is spotted by a
Women’s Wear Daily
photographer. He begins snapping. Garbo runs, into one shop and out of another. The photographer stays in hot pursuit. He confronts her finally; she covers her face with her newspaper; he finishes shooting a roll of film. Next day, pictures of Miss Garbo hiding her face behind a copy of
Women’s Wear Daily
run in the newspaper she has been hiding from.

Scene: The Massachusetts plant of Priscilla of Boston, the bridal-wear firm chosen to design Luci Baines Johnson’s wedding dress. Time: July 1966, three weeks before the ceremony. A
Women’s Wear Daily
photographer and reporter steal into the plant and search for Luci’s dress. Days later
WW
’s celebrated preview sketch of Luci’s gown appears; in retaliation,
Women’s Wear Daily
is barred by the White House from the Johnson-Nugent wedding.

Women’s Wear Daily
is—through what its publishers think of as journalistic resourcefulness and its victims think of as dirty pool—the most ubiquitous, influential, snoopy, controversial, despised and adored publication in the fashion world. Whatever else
WW
may be, it is read, from front to back, by everyone in the business and thousands out of it.

Bill Blass, the Seventh Avenue designer for best-dressed women, who credits
Women’s Wear
with his starburst success, picks up the paper every day on his way to work. Betsey Johnson, the miniskirted whiz behind the Paraphernalia boutiques, doesn’t like
WW
at all but thumbs through it before chucking her copy into her psychedelic trash can. To Jacques Tiffeau, the widely acclaimed French-born designer,
Women’s Wear
“is a marvelous meal every day. They know what’s happening … the only newspaper in the fashion world that responds. But then, they’re the only fashion newspaper.” To Eleanor Lambert, the fashion publicist who originated the American Best-Dressed List,
Women’s Wear
is “too personal, too collegiate, too juvenile, particularly in its crushes and enthusiasms. It picks on people. It isn’t editorially sound, but it’s journalistically brilliant. Of course I read it!”